I rent in a tiny building where my landlord lives upstairs. The place is beat-up and honestly falling apart, but it’s all I can afford right now.
For months, I begged him to fix a kitchen sink that leaked so badly I had to set buckets under it and empty them several times a day. He kept promising, then shrugging, then promising again. Nothing changed. Meanwhile, I kept signing for his pricey packages.
After the hundredth wet floor and the thousandth “I’ll get to it,” I snapped, but I didn’t want to do anything that could hurt anyone. I wanted him to see the problem the way I did, and to feel the kind of irritation I’d been living with.
So one morning, I quietly removed the leaky sink and carried it out to the front entryway. I didn’t leave it to block the door or cause a hazard; I propped it up on the building’s little welcome bench and arranged a note on top.
